


The Evidence of Things Not Seen

by Melanie_Athene



Series: To Err Is Human [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fix-It, Humor, M/M, Post Season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 09:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Bobby demand proof that Castiel and Dean are human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Evidence of Things Not Seen

It took the better part of an hour for Dean and Castiel to be tested. In that time they were poked, prodded, cut and scratched. They inhaled noxious potions and imbibed more of the same. In short, they were subjected to every test Bobby and Sam could recall – and the combined knowledge of the two hunters was very extensive indeed. When commonplace silver and salt and holy water proved to have no adverse effects whatsoever, Sam and Bobby moved on to more exotic items like holy oil and dead man's blood, cubeb and asafetida.

All the slowly – and sometimes painfully – accumulated evidence confirmed Dean and Castiel were human.

Inevitably, Dean treated Sam and Bobby to an exasperated 'I told you so' routine. But it was clear his heart wasn't in it. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead and his injured arm throbbed in rhythm with his pounding head. It almost felt like the damned thing was going to rip itself off and beat him to death, and wouldn't that just be ironic: survive an apocalypse or two only to kick the bucket from a simple little fall. If it didn't hurt so bad to breathe, he'd laugh his ass off. Maybe he'd get around to that later. Right now, though, he wanted in out of the blinding glare of the sun. He wanted food and a shower and about a week in bed... not necessarily in that order.

“So, Bobby,” he growled. “Gonna keep us standin' out here all day?”

“Reckon not,” Bobby drawled, wiping a cloth across the angel sword he held expertly in his hand, meticulously removing all traces of the scarlet smear which stained the glistening blade.

Castiel stared at the blood welling up from the cut on his forearm, as if amazed that the gash didn't bleed white light and immediately start to heal itself. But the blood just kept flowing, a steady drip, drip, drip that raised little clouds of dust as the droplets fell to the ground. Black dots danced across his vision as he observed this final, undeniable proof of his mortality.

“Cas? Cas?”

The voice sounded far away, though he knew from the warm weight of the hand resting on his arm that Dean was standing right beside him, invading his personal space as he had so often invaded Dean's.

“Are you okay?”

“I am... fine,” he replied, the words sounding slurred and unconvincing even to his own ears.

“Dude, you look anything but fine,” Dean said. “When's the last time you had something to eat?”

“Famine,” Castiel replied, swaying slightly. “Raw ground beef.” He grimaced in distaste.

“Man, that's the better part of a year ago. Let's get you inside and gas up the tank.” Dean's hand slid to Castiel's elbow, guiding his slow journey to Bobby's kitchen. “We'll disinfect that cut too.” He nodded towards the sword as Bobby walked past them, intent on locking it safely away. “You don't know where that thing's been.”

“Angel...”

“Not any more, you ain't,” Bobby snorted.

Dean felt the flinch Castiel tried to hide, and his lips thinned in anger.

“Angel blade,” Castiel continued, pretending he had not heard Bobby's mean-spirited jibe.

“You mean it's self-cleansing?” Dean guessed, settling Castiel in a chair at the table and hastening over to ransack Bobby's fridge. He might as well make several sandwiches while he was at it. He was hungry too. He'd been too out of it to eat last night, and in too much of a rush to swing by a diner this morning. Of course, the thought of food had never even crossed Castiel's mind.

“Holy,” Castiel corrected. “No bacteria can survive upon it.”

“Well, that's good to know,” Bobby said, plopping himself down in the chair farthest from the one Dean had claimed for Castiel. “I'd hate to give some poor bastard a nasty infection when I slice and dice him.”

“Ha, ha, ha,” Dean said dryly, fumbling the bread wrapper open one-handed. “Don't suppose you could lend me a hand here, funny man? And where the hell has Sam disappeared to?”

“This is a self-serve joint,” Bobby growled, “I'm not your damned waiter. And Sam went on ahead to the panic room. He's setting up accommodations for 'our Lord'. It ain't a stable, but it should do.”

“The panic room?” Dean said slowly, the paring knife he held in his right hand pausing in mid-slice of a tomato. “What the hell, Bobby? Cas isn't our prisoner.”

“He's not an honoured guest, either. He ain't even a welcome one.”

Dean gently set the knife on the countertop. “And what about me?” he said, looking out the window into the dooryard, not trusting himself to turn around and face his old friend. “Am I welcome here, Bobby?”

“Dean...” Castiel said softly. “Dean, it's all right. I will gladly stay in the panic room.”

“Answer the question, Bobby. Am. I. Welcome. Here.”

“You always have been.” The 'until now' remained unspoken, but the words hung heavy on the air between them.

“Maybe I need locking up too.”

“Maybe you do.”

“Dean...” Castiel said, distress plain to hear in his voice. “There is no need to – ”

“You keep out of this!” Dean snapped, spinning around to share a scowl equally with Bobby and the former angel.

“I should go,” Castiel whispered miserably, bowing his head to study his clasped hands.

“Maybe we both should,” Dean snarled, furious strides carrying him across the floor towards the kitchen door. “You with me or not, Cas?” he tossed back over his shoulder.

Castiel silently rose from his chair.

“Hey!” Sam cried, bounding into the kitchen like a one man cavalry, brandishing a loaded shotgun and looking more than ready to use it. “What's going on here? I could hear the yelling clear down in the basement.”

“Nothing to concern yourself about, Sam,” Dean said shortly. “We were just leaving.”

“You're what?” Sam shot Bobby a fierce 'now see what you've done' glare.

“Not my doing,” Bobby countered, spreading his hands wide in a waiver of all culpability. “Dean's got his panties in a twist over stashing Mr. Bow Down and Love Me in the panic room.”

“So help me, Bobby – ”

“Shut up, Dean.” Sam snapped. “You're being a hypocrite. You had no problem confining me down there. Hell, you strapped me down!”

“Cas is not all hepped up on demon blood.”

“No, he prefers to swill down souls.”

“He's clean now!”

“And that makes everything all hunky-dory, right?”

“Yes. No. Damn it, Sam, give the guy a chance, will you?”

“The chance to murder us all while we're asleep in our beds?” Bobby inquired pointedly.

“Cas wouldn't do that.”

“The old Cas wouldn't,” Sam readily agreed, leaning the gun against the wall, but still keeping it within easy reach. “We don't know what he's capable of now. Are you willing to stand guard 24-7? Get real, Dean. You're dead on your feet. A few hours of being locked up won't hurt him.”

“He had ample opportunity to kill me last night,” Dean said stubbornly, remembering how careful and considerate Castiel had been: covering him with his coat... the gentleness of his hands as he helped him in and out of the car... the sweet warmth of his body pressed against Dean in their shared bed...

A faint blush spread across Dean's cheeks as that particular memory surfaced.

“Just while we sleep, Dean,” Sam said, all puppy dog eyes and using the annoying wheedling tone that seldom failed to move his big brother, if only because caving in to it usually shut Sam the fuck up. “Only for a few hours each night, and he'll be sleeping too, so it won't be any great hardship for him. Right, Cas?”

“It is a reasonable precaution,” Castiel responded. “You need to rest and recuperate, Dean.”

It was the quiet, resigned acceptance in Castiel's voice that broke Dean. The sincere conviction that Dean's well-being was far more important than his own. An answering rush of profound sadness swept though the hunter. _Oh God,_ he thought wistfully, _Cas deserves better than this._

“So it's settled then.” Sam rubbed his palms together and exchanged a relieved glance with Bobby. “We'll move Cas down there tonight and – ”

“No,” Dean said.

“What?”

“You heard me, Sam. I said no.”

“Dean...” Castiel, Bobby and Sam chorused, with varying degrees of surprise and dismay.

“If you want to feel safe, you and Bobby can lock yourselves in the damned panic room. That's what it's for. Cas is sleeping on the couch. If you insist he have 'round the clock monitoring, he can bunk with me and I'll escort him where he needs to go. Or we can walk out that door right now and not look back. It's your house, so it's your call, Bobby.”

“D-Dean...” Castiel stuttered, his eyes widening in shock as a sudden, agonizing burst of pain shot from his heart to the fingertips of his right hand. Experimentally, he flexed his fingers, bringing the hand up to the level of his eyes and staring at it as if he'd never seen a hand before.

“You okay, Cas?” Dean said, his argument with Sam and Bobby forgotten as he quickly moved to stand next to the trembling man.

Castiel made no reply. He just kept staring at his hand, wincing as a second, stronger pulse travelled the same path as the first. And then he saw it – they all saw it – his hand was glowing: a faint, flickering glow that scarcely registered in the brightly lit kitchen, but a glow nonetheless. And its intensity was growing...

“What the fuck?” Dean whispered. “Are you going to go supernova on us?”

“No,” Castiel managed, biting his lip as a third wave swept through his arm. “I don't think so. I just feel... strange... I just want to...”

As if with a mind of its own, his hand stretched out towards Dean.

“I want to – I have to – touch you.”

“No, Dean!” Sam cried, grabbing ahold of his brother's arm and roughly jerking him back out of Castiel's reach. “What the hell do you think you're doing? Chuck might have missed extracting a soul or two. God knows what's in there waiting to get out.”

Castiel's hand dropped limply to his side, and his shivers escalated into deep shudders.

Dean tore himself free of his brother's grasp. The handprint on his shoulder was throbbing in sync with the pulsating glow of Castiel's hand. “Cas?” he whispered. “What can I do to help?”

“I want... I need...” Castiel's hand rose again to hover in mid air, its palsied shaking and the furrow on the ex-angel's brow indicating his inner battle to abort the motion.

Dean rolled up the left sleeve of his T-shirt and took two quick, decisive steps forward.

“Dean,” Sam hissed.

But Dean's focus had narrowed to a pair of anguished blue eyes. Firmly holding Castiel's gaze with his own, Dean reached out and carefully looped his fingers around Castiel's right wrist. And then he drew the hand up to rest on his left shoulder, Castiel's fingers slotting perfectly into place upon his mark.

There was no sudden flash of light, not so much as the tingle of a mild static shock. Instead, a feeling of great peace washed though both men as they stood there, staring into each other's eyes. The unearthly glow faded and was gone as if it had never existed. So too had Dean's pain vanished. He took the first deep breath he'd managed since he'd fallen, and there was no murmur of protest from his bandaged ribs. And so he took another, and another. And then, still holding Castiel's gaze with his own, he slowly slipped his left arm free of the sling and cautiously straightened it out. There was no twinge of pain, no trace of bruising.

“What the hell?” Sam muttered.

“Cas?” Dean said softly. “Have you got your mojo back?”

Castiel finally broke eye contact, his hand slipping from its tight grip on Dean's shoulder. He stared down at the cut on his own arm. The bleeding had finally stopped, but the wound was still painfully open and raw. “No,” he said, equally softly. “I'm still human, Dean.”

“Then what was that?” Dean said, and there was wonder in his voice.

“Faith,” Castiel whispered, and in a lower, even more gravelly tone which sent a shiver down Dean's spine, he added, “Forgiveness.”

“I caused that?” Dean breathed.

“Yes. You believed in me. That belief drew forth a flicker of Grace.”

“Which you used to heal me... instead of healing yourself.”

Castiel shrugged and glanced down at the floor.

“Hey,” Dean said, leaning in to recapture his eye. “Next time, hold a little something back for yourself, you hear me? Charge up your batteries.”

“Assuming there is a next time,” Castiel murmured. “Nothing happened before when you came to my defence. I don't understand what is different about this time... It may never happen again.”

“There will be a next time,” Dean said, his voice sure, though he too was uncertain as to what had possibly changed between them to make Castiel's lost Grace flare up now. Filing the thought away for later inspection, his gaze travelled to a silent Sam and Bobby. “So,” he said, “What's the verdict, Bobby?”

“ET can sleep on the damned couch,” Bobby muttered.

And if Dean felt a flutter of regret that he wouldn't get to share his bed with Castiel again, well, he kept that feeling to himself.


End file.
